Signal Fire
by Jesse Lacey
Summary: Every night she prays for the war to end, and every morning she realizes her prayers have yet to be answered.
1. Chapter 1

She washes her hands constantly, as if washing her hands would wash away some of the disappointment that she experiences in waves, as if washing her hands would remove the depression that ebbs at her constantly, as if washing her hands would fix anything. The only thing that it manages to do is keep her hands from being stained red. Red from the blood of the soldiers who are hanging onto life by a string, red from those who are already dead, or coated in the blood of a man she tries so desperately to save. She washes her hands to rid herself of the images of those boys lying on cots, tables, any readily available surface, She doesn't want to remember the looks of agony that lines their faces, she doesn't want to hear there screams as they plead for anyone and anything to end their pain, to save their lives. When she washes her hands she's imagine all of the the pain, all of the hurt being wiped away by the water, that she'd be pure again, that the war would be gone along with the blood on her hands.

She rubs her hands until they're raw, and still that doesn't get all of the blood, which has dries to her hands, fuses to her skin becoming part of her. And then finally she stops, once her hands start to hurt, and they're mostly red from being raw, not from being drenched in a man's blood. Then she trudges away, because she only really does this when she has breaks which are a rare find, and finds somewhere secluded to sit. She sits where the screams sound more like whispers if anything, where she can pretend that nothing's wrong, where she can pretend she's back home simply enjoying the weather.

She never comes up with a daydream to take her away though, she always feels the bitter cold that seems to be a constant fixture, she can still hear the sound of mortars and gunfire despite how distance it truly is, and the screams don't really sound like whispers she can almost hear the pleas of the men clearly, and she honestly wishes she can't.

She smokes a cigarette while she listens to the noises that have become the soundtrack to her day. She closes her eyes and vainly tries to picture herself somewhere else. But all she can hear is boots crunching over snow and ice, and the mutterings of conversations, the roaring of truck engines, noises that she hates. But still she tries to hear other things, things that would remind her of home.

"Ma'am, you're fixin' to freeze out here" a soldier says to her.

She keeps her eyes shut, and mutters a cynical comment, that she's fairly certain the soldier can't hear. And as much as she would like him to leave she knows he's still there, she can feel his eyes on her, she can hear his deep breaths that seem to grow louder and louder, until she finally consents to opening one eye.

"What do you want?" she mumbles due to the cigarette dangling from her mouth.

"I saw that you were a nurse, an well ma'am I'm in dire need of some medical supplies."

She could laugh at him, if she was a little bit crueler she might have, but then again if she were that way she wouldn't even be talking to him in the first place.

"Mon cher, we all need more supplies, back at the hospital we've been boiling and recycling bandages," she watches the medic's face for a barely visible sign of disappointment "but I guess I can try and get you something."

He doesn't smile at her, he simply shifts his weight and stares. She's not bothered by it though, no one smiles anymore. She's certain that if she even tried her lips would begin to crack and bleed.

The soldier follows her closely. So closely that she can hear his quiet breaths as he ambles behind her.

"What's your name?" she says quietly. She can't remember how to be truly social with strangers, nearly all of the strangers she meets now of days don't care for polite conversation, they care for medical treatment.

"Eugene," he has a deep soothing voice, in an accent that she's only heard in the American films that her brother would take her to see, "Eugene Roe."

She nods but says nothing otherwise, unsure of how to continue the conversation. She doesn't talk much to strangers who haven't been mangled beyond repair very often, so instead of saying the wrong thing she doesn't say anything at all.

They fall into an uncomfortable silence, and she curses herself from walking so far away from the church-turned-hospital. She can hear Eugene behind her still, managing to keep up with her quick pace. He says something to her that gets lost in the sound of an engine revving.

"I'm sorry, what?" She says. She doesn't turn to look at him, or slow down so that she might hear him better.

"I asked what your name was, ma'am" He says quietly. From the healthy American soldiers that she had met, Eugene Roe was decidedly different. He is a quiet, soft spoken man with a strange accent, and he was unconditionally polite as far as she could tell.

"Marguerite Blythe."

There was no need for her to try and continue amiable conversation, for her quick walking pace gets them to the church more quickly than she thought it would. She prays to God that no one sees her, otherwise her much desired is over. Of course, one of the American medics, a man by the name of Daniel, rushes over to her.

"Miss Blythe, we need your help, we got a guy who's innards are falling out of him"

She closes her eyes, and turns to Eugene, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to find another nurse to help you. They're around here somewhere" she says waving her hands about the room, before leaving him to follow Daniel into the makeshift room that had been created.

Sure enough there was a man with his insides practically falling out of his body. Daniel speaks quickly, saying that a grenade had gone of not a foot away from the sleeping soldier. The soldier is screaming, screaming for his mother, for God, for anything that would dull his pain. Marguerite finds herself, desperately trying to push the soldier's intestines back into his body. She can'tconcentrate due to his cries, but she tries anyway. And just as soon as it looks that she can stitch his torso up, the soldier's body grows terribly still.

Marguerite and Daniel both slowly remove their hands from the dead man, however they both look directly at each other instead of the body below. The room is now filled with a heavy silence, with the knowledge of death lingering in the air.

"Perhaps he had other injuries we hadn't seen?" she asks softly.

The American before her simply nods and grasps her bloody hand with his own.

"Miss Blythe, would you like to get something warm to eat with me?"

She wants to say yes, and let the GI drag her away from Bastogne. He's a rather handsome man, maybe in another world they would go on a date instead of holding hands over a dead body whilst freezing in a church. But Anna, one of the two other nurses, had walks in and reminds her that it's her turn to check the cots of the soldiers.

She smiles, or the closest thing she can mange, at the man before her, "perhaps at a different time?"

He gives her hand a small squeeze, before leaving her alone in the room with the newly deceased man.


	2. Chapter 2

Marguerite never really sleeps. Sleeping only brings nightmares of the boys who die in her arms, the boys who's names she can never remember, the boys who's faces are forever in her memory. Instead she tries to focus on anything but the cold that happens to encompass a quarter of her daily thoughts. She also prays. Every night she prays for the war to end, and every morning she realizes her prayer has yet to be answered. Yet she still prays, holding her rosary close to her lips and muttering softly into it. Eventually sleep overtakes her, and she always awakes to the sounds of Renee and Anna scurrying about the church, trying to perform miracles.

For the first time in days, maybe even weeks, she looks in the mirror. Her dress is coated in dry blood. Her face is pale, with dark circles lying underneath her large brown eyes. Her face is gaunt and her hair lays in a drab, flat bun at the base of her neck. She looks older than twenty-two, though she supposes that if she had the means to dress up and wear make up perhaps she wouldn't look so old. But she has the eyes of someone twice her age, the eyes of someone who's seen too much in a short period of time. She remembers a few years ago, just before the start of the war when she scoffed at the idea of war, when she was considered to be one of the most beautiful women in town. The sound of a man screaming stops her from reveling in the past, and she rushes away towards the man.

Medics and wounded constantly appear through the threshold. Some of the soldiers have no physical wounds themselves, but instead lie about with mental damage that Marguerite can't even begin to imagine. Others have simple minor wounds, but due to the apparent lack of aid stations on the battlefield they come back to Bastogne, to receive their treatment. Most are wounded beyond repair, emotionally physically it makes no difference, some don't make it back home, others get sent off back to somewhere safer like France or England, and others go home but are never truly alright. She doubts anyone who's actually witnessed the effects of this war will ever be fully right again.

She sees the same medic from a few days ago again. He doesn't have a wounded man with him, yet his face has a determined and worried look to it. She goes to greet him and to ask him what he needs, but Renee pushes past her telling her that she'll deal with him. She's never seen Renee this way and watches the exchange between her and the medic for a minute or two. The medic smiles at Renee when she hands him something, and Marguerite knows for a fact that Renee is smiling too. She's happy for them, somehow they managed to find peace in normalcy in all of this hell.

Later that night she sits outside and smokes a cigarette. It's a rule of thumb amongst the nurses not to leave the church after dark. One reason being of how bitterly cold Bastogne seems to get. Another reason is the amount of drunken soldiers that seemed to suddenly appear after dark. The numbers of them weren't overwhelming, its truly only a few. But either way they are been warned by officers that men who are in the town had a tendency to drink and it's best for nurses to stay in the church as much as possible. But when in desperate need of a cigarette, Marguerite isn't one to heed warnings.

She can only see by the dim candlelight in the church, the embers of the cigarette in her hand, and the snow that's reflecting the moonlight. She's not frightened though, nearly frozen but nowhere near frightened. Instead she muses on when she'll get transferred, she knows its coming soon enough, she's been here at Bastogne longer than anyone, and she's due to be transferred somewhere less dangerous, perhaps Paris. That's where most of the nurses are sent once they've completed some front line duties. She wants to go back to Paris, she's a liar if she says otherwise. She wants to see her grandmother again, it's been years since she's seen any member of her family. They're the only thing other that she desires now of days, well that and the sense of normalcy that Renee seems to have found.

The sounds of boots crunching over the freshly fallen snow stops her from musing over her desires. She turns slowly only to see a dark figure approaching her. She squints at the figure, as if it will suddenly improve her sight. She knows that its probably a medic looking for help, and seeing as Marguerite is currently the only nurse awake she's his go-to girl.

"Good evening, Miss Blythe" A deep voice greets her, and she knows automatically that it's the American medic with the strange accent, even f or an American.

"Good evening, Eugene. Do you have any wounded with you?" She mumbles to him, with her cigarette precariously sitting between her lips.

"No ma'am I don't."

"Oh," she says softly to herself more than to him, "Well is it supplies that you need?"

He sits next to her and rubs his hands together. Looking down at them Marguerite can see the callouses in the pale glow of the moonlight. She can see where blood has stained the arms of his uniform.

"Well yes, I do need supplies but that isn't why I've come."

She nods slowly, though she's still not sure why he's come. The only other reason as to why he's come is because of Renee.

"Oh, well Renee is asleep right now. I can tell her that you came to visit her though."

Eugene laughs, though it doesn't sound joyful as laughter should instead it has a very bitter sound to it, "I didn't come for Renee either."

"Then why did you– " she begins but she can see the look on Eugene's face and stops herself from finishing the question. She understands now why he's here, because its the exact same reason why she's there. There's no point in discussing feelings right now, it's not helping anyone, if anything it would only hurt.

They sit in silence for some minutes. She sits there listening to Eugene breathing and watches the snow fall in the light of the moon. If this was another time this would be a beautiful moment, the kind found in the silly romance novels that her friends would read. But instead this moment is in real life, where beautiful moments aren't acknowledged.

"Would you like a cigarette Eugene?" she has a hoarse raspy voice that she isn't proud of. It isn't melodic like the girls back home, or even the other girls sleeping in the building behind her. And now its laced with her thick French accent, she's surprised that any of these soldiers can understand her at times.

"That sounds lovely ma'am" he replies, slowly taking the cigarette that she holds out.

His fingers brush hers slightly as he grabs it. She's surprised to feel how soft they are despite everything he's been through since he's been here.

"You don't have to call me ma'am or Miss Blythe you know, Marguerite will work just fine."

He gives her a small broken smile, "I'm sorry Miss Blythe, it's just that my mother raised me to be a gentleman, and well that's just the gentlemanly thing to do I guess."

She returns his smile, and goes on to smoke another cigarette.

"It's quite tonight, isn't it?" She observes out loud, "It's nearly Christmas too, maybe this is the German version of a Christmas present."

Eugene gives her another small smile, "maybe it is."


	3. Chapter 3

A soldier lays on the table, he's paler than normal and just barely alive. Anna and a medic are frantically at work trying to save his life. He's Daniel the medic, the one who would often ask Marguerite out for coffee, though she'd never say yes he'd ask anyways. She stands there holding his hand, because he asked her too. She should be with Anna and the other medic trying to save his life. But instead she holds onto the pale hands of Daniel, telling him he'll be alright, that he'll survive this. She knows that he doesn't believe her, and quite frankly she doesn't believe herself either. He's losing so much blood, from what she can see, but she tries to believe that he really will live through this. She speaks to him quickly and softly in French so that only he can hear her. She knows that he probably doesn't understand her, but she hope it comforts him anyway.

"Miss Blythe," his voice is so quiet that she has to strain her ears to hear him, "if I live through this whole ordeal, will you do the honor of marrying me?"

It's not as if a soldier hasn't asked her this before, of course she usually had no idea who the man lying on the table was, but it was a common occurrence for a man on the verge of death to ask for marriage, or to request that a letter be sent out, or that amends with other soldiers be made on their behalf. But none of this made any of this doing business easier.

"Of course I'll marry you Daniel, I'd love to be the next Mrs. O'Callaghan."

He smiles at her for a brief second. In that second she can see what he might have been like prior to the war. He was probably as dashing, popular boy back in his hometown. He probably played a lot of sports and hoped to have a nice respectable job after the war.

From the corner of her eye she can see that Anna's stitching him up. And with that she knows that there's a glimmer of hope that he will live, and she's oddly happy about this. She had always tried so hard not to invest too much emotion into the soldiers, but at the prospect of this particular man living she's almost thrilled.

"You know Miss Blythe, just because you said that I refuse to die, I'm gonna make sure I live to see the day that I get to marry you."

She doesn't respond, instead she simply offers him a small smile. She wants him to live through this entire ordeal, to be able to lead a normal life after the war, but then again deep down on the inside she hopes this for every single soldier.

But he doesn't last, with wounds like that they never do. The cold grip of death comes for him after their bastardized version of surgery, when Renee comes chasing after her, telling her that she couldn't stop the bleeding, that the stitches had ripped open while he was sleeping.

"He called your name Rite," Renee says in a soft voice, "I'm so sorry, I know you liked him best out of all of them."

Marguerite says nothing though, she turns back to the soldier whose bandages she's been changing. She shakes her head a little and begins to sing a song under her breath. It's a song her mother used to sing to her and her brother. It reminds her of more innocent times. Times when there were nor troubles in life. When no one she knew died, when the worst thing that could happen was having to go to school in the fall.

She doesn't even muster the ability to cry. He's just like the rest of them, he's nothing special to her at all.

And her day progresses. She discharges one of the soldiers, for nothing was truly wrong with him the war just got to be a bit much she assumes. And another soldier comes in. He's got a strange accent and talks a bit too much for anyone's liking but he keeps the spirits of the other soldiers up. He tells crude jokes and does impressions of what she assumes are the superiors of the men. He's not injured, or at least not to her knowledge but he's there.

"So ma'am I've been sent by the great Doc Roe." He says to her as she finishes checking on the last of the patients, "told me to 'get the hell off of the front line for a minute and find some goddamn boots for Toye' and naturally I took the opportunity and her I am asking you for boots, and hell why you're at it you got anything for a radio?"

She gave him a side glance, "we don't have any boots, well not new ones anyway."

He gave her a toothy grin, "Miss we've gone to hell and back, I really don't think ol' Joe Toye is gonna mind some used boots there."

"Luz, don't talk to the nurses like that." It's that same familiar deep voice, and sure enough Eugene Roe is walking through from one of the rooms.

"Well Doc, it's been awhile since I've been around a woman, I start to forget my manners after awhile. I apologize deeply ma'am, but do you have anything for a radio?"

She shakes her head, "I can't say that we do."

"Well damn, the only good things about this place are the pretty faces and the hot chow." He winks at her when he says this and a light blush graces her cheeks. She looks over to Eugene who's blushing more than she is.

"Luz, go down and go get some coffee or something," Eugene mumbles giving Luz a small push away from Marguerite.

"You don't have to tell me twice," Luz says with a toothy grin before turning towards her, "until next time madam."

He bows slightly before walking away. His footfalls are loud and for a moment fills the silence left between Marguerite and Eugene.

Eugene shifts his weight and awkwardly clears his throat, "He was driving the lieutenant up a wall so the lieutenant asked me to take him with me to Bastogne for a bit so he could get a break. I'm sorry if he was disturbing the peace, or if he offended you or something."

She almost smiles at him, almost. "No, he was fine, he brightened the mood in here a bit."

They lapse into another silence, and it's an uncomfortable one. He looks as though he wants to say something to her, as if to ask a question. He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again quickly.

The silence between them is deafening.

"So, what size boots?" she says carefully.

"A- uh nine, I believe."

She nods. She should have known, all of these soldier wear the same size in nearly everything. Of course there's the anomalies who are larger or smaller than the average soldier, but generally they're all the same size, same manner of speaking, same everything. None of them are really any different, or at least they don't seem so different.

She grabs a crate to put things in. First go the boots, then some bandages, sulfa powder, morphine, needle and thread, a chocolate bar or two. Basic things that he would need to heal and help. When she turns back to hand him the crate he has a perplexed look on his face.

"Miss Blythe, I don't want to impose."

"Call me Marguerite," she says in an almost harsh tone that catches her off guard for a second. "Anyways, there was a drop yesterday. We have more than enough supplies, and I know that out on the line you all have close to nothing. I'm sure we'll survive until the next drop."

It's silent again, and she can feel the weight Eugene's gaze, a gaze that she can't quiet return so instead she stares the the bloody medic bandage on his arm.

"Well then I should be on my way before George Luz comes on back here for one of you nurses, but thank you Miss Marguerite, I'm in your debt for this."

His calloused hand grazes hers as he takes the crate from her. His touch makes her body go rigid and cause blush to rise up her neck. She pulls her hand away quickly and shakes her head as if saying no problem before watching him leave. As soon as he's well our of an earshot she lets out a long sigh and relaxes some, and goes to find something to busy herself with.

She hates Bastogne and all of the things it is doing to her.


	4. Chapter 4

A soldier walks into the church. He comes baring a letter, a letter with her name typed neatly on the front of it. A letter from the nurse corps. Normally she would place the letter on her bed and wait until later to read it. But this is different, this letter could contain what she's been waiting to hear for months, that she would finally be getting the hell out of Bastogne.

"Sorry," The soldier says, "The letter got lost in the mail."

She all but snatches the letter from his hands and tears open the envelope. Quickly she scans the letter for the key phrase, and nearly yells out in joy when she finds it. '_You will be transferred to Paris, France on January 5__th__, 1945..._'

"What's the date today," she quickly says to the soldier.

"Well I believe its December 22nd today ma'am."

She nods and mutters a quick thank you before striding away. She can hardly contain her excitement as she goes to place the letter down with her belongings. The joy of being able to go back to France is coursing through her veins. Ever since she got to Bastogne she's wanted to leave, and now the chance is finally in sight. She thinks of what she'll do when she gets there, what it will be like to take a proper bath, to feel clean again, to be able to do things on weekends and not be completely terrified of being bombed at any minute, or have to deal with seeing dead men brought to her.

When she tells Anna and Renee they're happy for her, she's been in Bastogne longer than either of them. She was here before them so its only natural that she leaves before them as well. But she can see their disdain too. They'll still be trapped in this frozen wasteland, while she heads back to civilization. They'll have to deal with more since they'll be short one experienced nurse, they'll have to train another girl and compensate some.

She almost feels selfish really. She rejoices at the thought of going somewhere more civilized, where she isn't dealing with the immediate effects of war, where she doesn't have to bandage fresh wounds all the time, where she can be clean and sleep well into the night. Where the whole threat of war seems just a little bit further away.

She finds herself quickly slipping out of the melancholy that had been taking over her for the past few days. While she doesn't do things exuberantly, she's more amiable than she's been in awhile, and she finds herself starting to give more real smiles than fake. It's as if the letter has given her a new lease on life, as if she now has another chance. The fact that the number of casualties is lessening adds to her mood. She feels as though God has finally acknowledged her prayers at least, perhaps she'll have an easy last few weeks while she's in Bastogne, she knows she's getting a little beyond herself, it's all just fanciful thinking, but she can't help but hope for it anyways.

December 22nd,1944. It's probably the best day she's had since she's been in Bastogne. Her day is relatively quiet, she gives a few men baths, dresses the wounds of others, has conversations with some more. Anna and Renee want to do something for the men for Christmas, and she likes the idea of it. They don't have much of anything, maybe they'll give extra rations of chocolate or somehow they'll find a little time to make something nice for the men, though she can't imagine what.

However by mid-afternoon December 22nd doesn't seem like a such a great day after all. There was an air strike in the woods, and she could see medics coming adding more bodies to the pile of dead that lay not far from the church.

Soon enough wounded started piling in. Its enough wounded to almost make her forget about the good news she'd received earlier. Its enough wounded to keep her busy and on her feet for what feels like forever.

She's not happy anymore, her face is pinched into an almost permanent frown, and she can't find it in her to at least try and smile at anyone. There's nothing to smile about anyways, there never is. She feels bad for all of the men who come her way, they're all thousands of miles from home and their lives will never be the same again. She doesn't see those with minor wounds anymore, after all that's why there are medics to deal with things of that nature. But after seeing so many extremities hanging barely on by tendons, or bones protruding out of flesh, and seeing the deep color of blood everywhere, she honestly does miss the lesser cases. She'd much rather see little cases of frostbite or trench foot, she wouldn't mind even lancing a few boils if it got her away from the gore that consumed her everyday life.

She begins to feel more and more selfish with each passing minute. She was saving lives, she was a hero and some respect. Perhaps God is blessing her with the ability to save lives, to do something for the greater good, something beyond herself. Her mother had always told her that it was important to look after everyone, to pray to God that everyone might be safe and okay not just the people she cares for. Her mother would tell her how the selfish would find no friends and no place in heaven, and a young Marguerite always believed her. But then she remembers what Renee had said to her once:

"God would never give someone such a curse."

And she starts to think Renee is right. More men die in her hands then survive. She's lost count of how many she's actually saved and how many she's failed. But she knows the dead far out number the living. They have to, because she can remember the face of every single dead soldier, and they're numerous, but the living don't have the same effect. She can't remember them, sure a few faces stick out to her. But it's not the same. She can see the faces of the dead men in her sleep, she can see them everything she sees a men lying on a makeshift cot beginning for his life. It's all she can think about after awhile.

She has the last check for the night. She walks between all the cots making sure that every last man is as comfortable as possible, that all bandages are changed, that stitches are done correctly. Then she finally goes to the nurses quarters.

She changes out of her dirty, blood stained clothing, into other clothing that isn't quite as dirty or stained. She then climbs into her bed, unable to sleep. She stares at the letter that she was so enthused about for a minute or two before dropping it on the ground.

It's quite times like these that she thinks of what she might do one day. She wants to get married and have a family. She wants a simple life, in the country somewhere. Somewhere where she can raise her children in peace, somewhere where she's not in surrounded by death, she's had enough for a lifetime. She wants her husband to do something simple, like being a tailor or a farmer. She craves a simple life, like the life that her grandmother would tell her about. Where days were long and their was never a care in the world other than daily tasks. She tries not to toy with this dream life too much though, of this war has taught her anything it's that nothing is permanent. But still she likes the idea of it.

The next day she's awake before Anna and Renee. She tries to go back to sleep, but sleep never comes to her. So slowly she gets out of bed and decides to go forth and do her rounds. The wounded are doing as well as can be expected given their situation. Some manage to make small jokes, others just lie still in a deafening silence emulating the dead.

Everything is the same way its always been in a sense, and Marguerite knows she'll never miss that fact of life, she makes a mental note that she only has thirteen days left, less than two weeks in this frozen tundra of hell before she's been stuck in for what feels like forever.

Eventually Anna and Renee come and join her. They insist that she go back to bed, because as per usual they know she hasn't sleep her face tells the entire story. But she refutes them, saying its useless and it won't do anybody any good, because deep down they all know that its the truth.

At some point a medic comes in with a wounded man. He says something about there just being a drop somewhere in the forest, saying that he can take one of the nurses to go pick up more supplies. Anna and Renee volunteer her, saying that she's too tired to be of any service to the men so she may as well go get the supplies. And so she leaves with the medic.

The medic is a little over friendly for her taste, he's buzzing with words, never stopping for a minute. He tells little stories of what's happened and tries to keep the conversation light. He speaks so fast that she can hardly keep up, but she's glad that he talks about things other than the grim destruction that lies around them in the snow.

On the way their she's pulled aside a few times to see if some of the injuries the men have are worth going back to Bastogne for. One man has such a bad case of trench foot that she can hardly stand to look at it, and she recommends that he go back to Bastogne immediately. Another has a gaping wound on his thigh, and what looks to be blood poisoning, all she can do is have the medic get a truck for the man while the soldier gives a delirious and grim stare.

She finally reaches the drop site, and what she sees isn't a lot. Some bandages and morphine, a little bit of food but not enough to really do anything. The medic apologizes profusely saying he swore that there had been more, and if he didn't know any better some of the men had scavenged the site. She shrugs off the apology, saying they can survive another week at the church before they'll be in desperate want, and the medic promises her that they're will most likely be another drop in the next week, so she need not worry.

They have to wait for a few minutes while another truck makes it back to their dense section of the woods, and in those few minutes she tries to make herself that much more useful. She wraps wounds, checks for infections, basic things that the medics are probably too busy to do. Finally the truck comes, and she's thankful, because while it's quite cold in the church the front lines is a completely different story. On the front lines men are practically freezing to death, she has now clue how they actually stay warm enough to move let alone fight. And she's happy that she's not one of the front-line nurses, she doesn't think she'd be able to survive it.

The ride back to the village is relatively silent and peaceful. Too peaceful for a war zone, and just as the driver of the truck goes to comment on this fact a deafening noise overcomes them, and the next thing Marguerite knows she's being pulled under the jeep by a soldier, who's holding her tightly. She can hear one of the men cursing as loud as he can, cursing the Germans with every word imaginable. She herself can't form a coherent thought, they're all rushing past her. All she can do is scoot closer to the soldier holding her, who proceeds to hold her tighter. Maybe he can sense her fear because he tells her that they're going to be alright, and she's so far gone that she believes him.

Eventually the bombing lets up, and the men are nearly one-hundred percent sure that the Germans are done with Bastogne for now, and they drive into the city. But nothing prepares them for what they see.

The whole village for the most part is in shambles. Great hulking stone buildings that had been there is decent condition are now piles of rubble. It looks as though the apocalypse has struck, and has left no survivors. There are burning buildings in every direction, the stench of death surrounds them.

They don't have to pull up to the church to know its destroyed, but they do anyways. The building's not on fire, but its hot. The bomb that hit it incinerated most of the building.

Marguerite knows that Renee and Anna must be dead, the odds of them surviving the blast are little to none. But she jumps out of the jeep anyways. She runs over to the only part of the building that's still somewhat there and finds not a single living person. She begins to move the rubble, she nicks her hands on the heated rocks, but continues on anyways. She pushes away brick after brick, with her now bloody broken hands. Still she finds nothing. So she moves on to another area, because if its t he last thing she does she'll find Renee and Anna. Renee and Anna was essentially Marguerite's entire family in the frozen wasteland. They were the only people left that were helping her keep sane, helping her keep hope of a better, brighter future. So she keeps digging, to save her family.

"Ma'am," someone says to her placing a cold hand on her shoulder, "I'm sorry ma'am but we're going to have move you away from here. It's not safe."

She looks at the soldier talking to her. He's young, though maybe a bit older than she is. He has a sad compassionate look on her face. He holds her hand out to her, but she doesn't take it.

"No," she says shaking her head, "no, I have to find my friends first. I need to know they're alright."

The soldier doesn't say anything back and squats next to her. She's not actually moving the rubble anymore, instead she's sitting in the snow, looking at a piece of cloth that looks rather similar to the one that Anna had, but she shakes her head. Because Anna and Renee couldn't have died, because if they had that means she would be dead, and she most certainly was not dead.

She continues to sit there until she's so could she's in in pain. She feels pins and needles over her entire body, and only then when its nearly unbearable does she start to move. She nearly falls over from moving too fast, but to her surprise someone catches her. Its the same soldier from before. He helps her over the piles of rubble. He says absolutely nothing to her, and she's thankful that he doesn't because she has no words. Anything resembling a word dies in her throat, rendering her speechless. He leads her to the tailor's shop. Only now it's not a tailor's shop anymore, its a makeshift hospital. The shop is less than half the size of the church, if even that.

Once she's inside, she doesn't stop to look back on the gravity of what just happened. She walks over to a bloody man screaming in pain. It's fair to say that she's the most medically savvy person in the room, and when she pushes past the medics and soldiers in the room they don't stop her. She goes about her work quietly, repairing the gaping hole in the man's leg as best she can.

Once she's done doing all the tending that she can, she walks out of the cramped space and sits on the steps of the building across the street.

She's not sure what she feels, she's not sure what to feel. But as she looks over the scape of the destroyed town, she sees a familiar figure of the soldier who held her during the bombings walking over to her, and with that she feels a small wave of relief overcome her.


	5. Chapter 5

Four new nurses come to replace Renee and Anna. She's not thrilled about these girls either, the first day one of them faints at the sight of a man who's innards are nearly falling out of him. They wear their hearts on their sleeves, and get upset when one of the men die. They're weak emotional little girls, and weak emotional little girls don't last long in a place like Bastogne. Of course they'll live, after Patton's arrival there's not much of a chance of the city being bombed again, but Marguerite doubts they'll make it mentally, they're bound to succumb to the surrounding environment and snap.

She doesn't like how naïve and fragile they are. They're too sweet, too innocent for her. They remind her of how she used to be before the war, before her life became to gritty mess that it is. The girls believe that the war will end soon, and that they'll be home in a few months time. They believe that they'll all be whisked away by some fantastic soldier and live happily ever after. None of them are that much younger than her, in fact two of them are actually older than her. She can't understand the idealism of the other girls, and she doesn't think she wants to. Hope and ideals, those sorts of things shrivel up and die in war, without much of a chance, and Marguerite doesn't want any more death than there has to be.

With more nurses, there's more break time for her. She spends her breaks outside, slowly freezing on the outside, while she smokes cigarettes. She likes these breaks best in her day. She doesn't have to deal with demanding doctors, she doesn't have to see the wounded and dying, and she doesn't have to listen to her cohorts ridiculous chatter. She likes to sit a ways away from the new makeshift hospital and think. She likes to think about the past more and more often. She thinks about winters with her mother and brothers. She thinks about the lazy summer days when she and her brothers would go to their grandparent's bookstore and loiter around all day long. She focuses on past memories, because they're the only things that seem to keep her sane.

Just as she lights a new cigarette she swears she sees Eugene. He's walking into the hospital, and he has no wounded with him, or none that she can see anyways. Before she can really think about what she's doing she calls his name out. He turns around and looks at her, he moves to walk towards her, but pauses almost looking conflicted. She walks over to him, and she's not sure why, because she's never really been one for idle small chat, but she hasn't seen Eugene since before the bombing, so she has an odd desire to talk to him.

"Marguerite," he says carefully, as if he's choosing his words so that he won't upset her, "it's nice to see you again."

His voice is a little cold and off sounding, but she can tell that in his own strange way he means it. Now that she's walked over to him he doesn't look as tense and terse as he was when she was across the street, he's more calm now.

"I'm glad you're okay too Eugene," she says quietly, "it's been a difficult few days for everyone, I'm glad to see you made it through it.

He smiles at her, but his lips crack some when he does, causing the smile to look painful. His lips now turn a slightly more red color as the blood pools up closer to the surface. Without much thought she hands him her handkerchief.

He gives her a confused look, and she replies, "for your lip, it's bleeding."

He presses the handkerchief to his mouth, and they stand in silence.

"How," he begins but quickly stops with a pensive look on his face and the handkerchief on his lips preventing any words from spilling out. "How are you faring now?"

She quirks the corners of her mouth up into a small smile and fiddles with her hands, " Quite well, we've got 4 new nurses and three more doctors, and I got a letter from my brothers today, so overall everything is good."

She knows that's not the answer that Eugene had wanted, but she couldn't really think of an answer that would have been anywhere near correct or appropriate, so she answers with that. He gives her a small smile in response and shakes his head, as if he understands why she said what she said. And she truly believes that he does in fact understand, because there seems to be some great empathetic quality to Eugene, and she envies that because she knows its a quality she lacks.

"Your brothers back home in France?" he asks amiably. Talking to Eugene seems to take away the bite of the cold, its easily the most enjoyable part of her day thus far.

"I'm not sure, they're all in the military they could be anywhere."

He doesn't ask for any elaboration, and she doesn't plan on elaborating either. If she divulges, and gets too personal it could destroy the careful balance she has set up. She can't get too close to anyone, she wasn't even that close to Anna and Renee. War doesn't allow it, because when they die, which is inevitable, she can't be completely destroyed by it. In order to be an effective nurse she just simply can't be.

There isn't time to say much of anything else, another soldier calls for Eugene as soon as a silence falls between them. Eugene only gives her a small smile before trudging back to the other soldier. She's not disappointed, she was surprised he was even available to talk for this long. There's no time but for the job ahead, and she knows this all to well. She tosses her cigarette in the snow and walks away.

She walks back into the new hospital, and no one's really bustling about. They're working of course, there's always work to do. But now that there's more people and a clear path out of Bastogne, the workload is nothing like it was prior to Christmas.

"You sweet on him Maggie?" A girl named Flora asks. She's one of the two American nurses, and she's also the one who fainted on her first day. She and the other nurses have a sickening habit of calling Marguerite Maggie, and no matter how many times she insists they don't call her that, at this rate its countless, they still do.

"No," Marguerite says dismissively, "that's just Eugene. We talk sometimes when he goes into town. That's all."

Flora gives her a large toothy grin, "well he's kind of cute, seems to be just my type. You mind if I go after him?"

Marguerite shrugs and walks away towards the man Eugene had brought in. She looks at the hastily written chart for him.

"Darrell Powers?" she asks him softly, not wanting to disturb the other men.

He jerks his head up, as if waking from sleep though he appeared to be fully awake when she had walked over.

"Yes ma'am that's me." He smiles at her, and its the most sincere smile she's seen in months, maybe even years. It's not the forced polite smiles that the other nurses and some of the delivery boys give her, it's not the sad smiles that medics and wounded give, and it's not like Eugene's small ambivalent smiles. Darrell Powers shows all of his teeth when he smiles, and almost looks legitimately happy, though considering he's trapped in a dingy makeshift war hospital there's not much for him to be happy about.

"I'm sorry but it appears your chart hasn't been finished, so would you mind telling me you injury?"

"Oh, well it's nothing really to tell you the truth ma'am. I just got some shrapnel and tree bits stuck in my shoulder from the shelling," he points at his bandaged shoulder, "I don't even hurt all that much Doc could have fixed it up, but I think he brought me here so I could get a nice hot meal and get some time off the line."

His smile is infectious and she can't help but smile back some, "well lets see if I can get you that hot meal then."

"Oh you don't have to do that, being off of the line is more than nice enough"

She smiles and finishes filling out his chart before placing it on his bedside and walking away.

Somehow the village bakery is the only thing that's never really been damaged in any of the bombing that occurred. She trudges over to the bakery, trembling as the wind cuts through her coat, chilling her thin frame to the bone. She can't afford much food, and the bakery doesn't exactly have a lot of food to give away. But she manages to purchase some meat and potato stew, practically a delicacy in Bastogne, bread and coffee. The baker gives her a free croissant, telling her she'll simply be blown away by the wind if she doesn't eat it. She grins and stuffs the croissant in her pocket.

She makes her way back to the church quickly, concealing her back of goodies as she does so. She doesn't want anyone to know that she has stew, if she makes it known everyone who can walk will swamp her for the stew.

When she get's back inside Flora's no longer guarding the door, and she can imagine that she and the other nurses are most likely gossiping over by the furnaces, as that seems to be their favorite pastime. She walks over to Darrell, making sure not to get too close to the other boys so that they won't be able to smell anything.

"Here you are Darrell," she says placing the food on a tray on the side table, "A nice warm meal."

He furrows his brows as he looks at the food, "Oh I know they don't serve this in the hospital," he says loudly before she quickly shushes him, "I'm sorry ma'am but this is too good to even be in the town let alone at my bedside."

"Oh don't worry," she says quickly placing the tray on his bed, "you're superiors eat far better than this. Don't worry if you think you're putting anyone out."

"Well Miss, it's not fair that I get this, and the others don't." Darrell argued. It was clear he was of a good kind nature, his words simply expounded upon this.

"No, it's unfair that you missed meal time, and won't get to eat again for another 4 hours," she replied, "now eat, please. You'll need to build up your strength anyways."

He looks as if he's getting ready to argue with her again, but she gives him a stern look and begins to eat the food in front of him.

Marguerite sits on the side of his bed, and pulls the croissant out of her pocket. She pulls it apart slowly and eats it, watching as flacks from the croissant land on her coat. She likes this moment, because this moment reminds her of being home sitting on the stoop of her grandparent's shop with her brother Alain eating pastries from the Bakery down the lane. They would sit there and watch their elder brothers Georges and Luc play football in the lot across the street with the other older boys in the neighborhood.

She finishes her croissant and stands up wiping off her coat.

"Thank you for the food Miss," Darrell says between bites of his bread.

She nods and smiles, before walking away. She walks past the other girls, who are in fact standing by the heater talking about attractive soldiers, she hadn't expected anything more from them. She tells them that she'll be going off to bed now, and to wake her if the deem it important. They agree, though she knows none of them were actually listening to her.

She changes her clothes quickly, so that her bare skin won't be exposed to the cold for too long, and once she's done she collects her stationary and pen. She hasn't written a letter since the beginning of December, and now receiving three letters, she figures now is a good a time as any to write.

She writes Alain first,as they had always been the closest and she always has loads to say to him.

She tells him about the cold, and how she's jealous of that wherever he's stationed, she imagines its north Africa, where it's too ridiculously hot. She also tells him of how she dreams of being back home, and how she can't wait to be back home in her cramped room with their mother's disgusting cooking. She tells him that she's always glad to hear from him, and how she wishes he would write more, but understands why he doesn't. She also tells him that she's happy that he;s found a nice girl who makes him happy, she tells him that he better bring the girl to her before he marries her, so that she can make sure the girl is good enough for him.

And in that moment she feels that none of her family is all that far away, and nothing's really changed at all.


	6. Chapter 6

I'm not even sure if this chapter makes complete sense, but I had tried to give some background on Marguerite, so the whole chapter spans from when she's about 8 until her time in Bastogne, so that's about 12 years give or take. Anyways I'm terribly sorry if it doesn't make complete sense and I'm terribly sorry that it took so long to update, but I tried to write a long chapter to make up for that. So please review and tell me what you think, oh and I promise the next chapter will be much easier to follow.

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><p>The first time Marguerite leaves France she's eight years old. Her mother tells her and her brothers that they're going to visit their father, whose in England visiting people. Marguerite and Alain are overjoyed at the prospect of riding both a train and a ship, while Georges and Luc are more resigned about the trip. Georges, being the eldest and the most disgruntled, explodes in a fit of anger telling their mother that he won't go, and that he never wants to see their father again. And for the first time in her life, Marguerite sees her mother get visibly upset, and yells at Georges telling him he will go, and the house is quiet for the rest of the day.<p>

When they get to England they ride another train until they reach the country side, which looks vastly different yet oddly similar to the young girl. They then catch a taxi, and Marguerite can't help but wonder if their trip will ever end, as they've been traveling for two day's now. But eventually the taxi ride ends and the reach the nicest and largest house they ever seen. Even Georges and Luc manage to be awestruck, something that rarely happens to them.

Their mother inspects their clothes meticulously, checking for dirt or wrinkles, or anything that she says "they won't like." She doesn't know who "they" are and when she asks Luc he shrugs, and Georges snaps at her telling her not to ask stupid baby questions, so she doesn't ask anymore questions.

Soon enough she finds out who "they" are. When they get to the door their ushered in by a tall official looking old man, who simply asks their names, and then ushers them into a room.

The room he leads them to is a large room, filled with uncomfortable looking velvet sofas, and paintings of regal looking men and women. Some of whom look somewhat similar to her father. After a minute or two the door opens, and reveals an older looking woman. She doesn't look happy to see them, yet she doesn't exactly seem angry either. She stares at them all for a long moment, before turning to their mother.

"And what exactly has brought you here, Cecile?" she says in a very cold way, the woman looks back at all of the children, her eyes resting on Alain and Marguerite.

"We came here to see David," their mother replies timidly.

"He's out hunting right now," the woman says looking annoyed, "this isn't the best time you know."

"I know," their mother says sounding almost distressed though Marguerite can't figure out why, "but I don't know what else to do. I thought that perhaps if we came here he'd calm down and cime back."

"So these are the children?" the woman says ignoring their mother's comment.

"Oh yes," their mother replies, "this is Georges, he's fourteen now, Luc is eleven, and Alain and Marguerite are eight."

"Well,they must be hungry," the old woman says smiling at them. It's strange to see her austere face break into a kind smile, that somehow seems fitting for her face. "I'll have some tea and sandwiches made for you. If you would follow me."

She leads them to what would be a sun room, if there were actually any sun in England. The furniture is fancy, and when Marguerite sits down she's afraid she'll break something, so she sits on her hands the entire time.

After a few minutes the same butler comes back around, this time he has a whole platter full of sandwiches and he presents them before the children. Alain, Marguerite, and Luc all look at the food with skepticism while Georges, in his stubborn way, refuses to even spare a glance towards the food. The older woman leads her mother out, leaving the children alone in the room. They eat in silence, and when they're finished eating they all sit in a stony silence. They're all too scared to talk, except for Georges who stands in the furthest corner staring angrily at the windows.

Marguerite isn't sure where her mother is, and she isn't sure why Georges is angry, and she isn't quite sure why they had to go to England to see her father, but she's too nervous to vocalize her questions so she remains silent, staring at the gardens.

They sit for eternity, or what feels like it at least, until the children see a couple walking around outside. Georges perks up like this, and gets so close to the window that his nose nearly touches it. If Marguerite had thought he was angry before she was dearly mistaken, because now Georges is livid. He clenches his hands into fists so tightly that his knuckles turn white. His face pales and he's shaking, and in that moment Marguerite can't tell if he's violently angry or if he's going to be violently ill, either way she doesn't go near him for fear of his reaction. Luc too looks out of the window, though he looks more confused and sad than angry. When Alain goes to get up and see what's happening Georges screams at him to sit down, because as he puts it "you won't understand now, but you'll know soon enough."

A few minutes pass and soon enough the couple is at the door before the children. Through the glass Marguerite can see her father and a woman she's never seen before in her life, though at the moment she could careless about the woman because she's overjoyed to see her father.

"Papa!" she calls before her brain can tell her to remain silent, and as if he hears her her father looks up and into the room full of children. Carefully he opens the door looking apprehensive about the sight before him, but Marguerite doesn't take much notice nor does she care. She clings onto his torso, joy is the only distinguishable emotion she has, an she can feel her father patting her head softly.

"What are you all doing here? How did you get here?" His voice sounds strange, as if he's straining to sound normal, but shock still seeps through in his tone.

While he doesn't say it, all of his words are directed to Georges, but Georges doesn't respond. He remains in his steely silence staring at his father. Marguerite can notice tears welling up in Georges eyes, but can't possibly begin to grasp the gravity of the situation. Everyone seems to freeze in their respective positions holding their breath. Marguerite and Alain stay there, clinging to their father. Luc looks torn between going to father and standing by Georges. Georges clenches his fists so tightly that the skin spreads thinly over the bones in his hands, his posture straight enough to rival a soldier, and his eyes hold some kind of hatred Marguerite has never seen.

"David, do you know these children?" the woman says softly, causing all eyes to fall on her. Looking at her Marguerite can see that she wears for more makeup than her mother does and she seems to not be very pleased with the situation.

Their father doesn't answer immediately instead her stares at the four children in front of him, and then back at the woman. Something about this action insights even more anger from Georges as he suddenly stomps over to their father and removes Alain from where he had been hugging the man.

"Luc, grab Rite and come on!" he snaps fiercely as he drags the younger boy along with him not caring as Alain continues to stumble in his grasp. Quietly Luc obeys their older brother, trying to pull Marguerite away from their father, and she doesn't fight him as much as she feels like she should instead she ambles along with Luc, following the sounds of Georges' angry footsteps that reverberate through the hall.

When they finally reach Georges and Alain they're in the drawing room with the old woman and their mother.

"We have to go back to France!" he yells at their mother. She doesn't look pleased and winces at the volume of his words.

"Georges we just got here, we can't simply leave yet. Besides you haven't even seen your father yet, you need to see him before we can leave." Her voice is tense yet exhausted and for the first time Marguerite can see how tired her mother looks.

"It doesn't matter, he's not worth seeing we need to go!" There are tears streaming down his face and Marguerite knows that Georges hates crying so it must be important matter to him, though she can't quite understand why he didn't tell their mother that he had seen their father if he wanted to leave so badly.

But as it turns out Georges doesn't need to say anything because within seconds their father appears with the woman standing closely behind. No one says anything and their parents exchange hard stares.

"Why don't you introduce us David?" Their mother says her voice tense and sharp, Marguerite has never heard her sound this way before.

Their father clears his throat awkwardly, "Well Cecile this is Ms. Vera Turner, Vera this is Cecile Beauchene and these are her children Georges, Luc, Alain, and Marguerite."

Their mother stiffens as the words come out of his and gives him a cold steady look, one that manages to put Georges to shame. Their father has called their mother by their grandparents last name and Marguerite has the slightest idea why, but doubts her thoughts. Instead she turns to her father who she can see is fidgeting slightly under the gaze.

"Oh what beautiful children you have Mrs. Beauchene," Vera Turner says in a pleasant chirp as if the tension in the room in nonexistent, "I don't think I've seen two children as adorable as your youngest ones."

"Well Lady Blythe, it's been lovely visiting you but considering Georges' urgings I think it's best if we go now." Cecile says quietly moving closer to the children and turning away from their father and Ms. Turner.

The old woman referred to as Lady Blythe frowns and places a hand on Cecile's, "Oh but Cecile, you've had such a long journey, why not stay for one night? The children do look a bit tired."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to impose or take advantage of your kindness Lady Blythe." Cecile says smiling back at the older woman.

"Well at least let me help you set up your itinerary for the way back?" Lady Blythe places both of her hands on Cecile's as if silently urging her to stay just a while longer.

"Alright then," Cecile says quietly as if she only wants Lady Blythe to here, though the room is so quiet that everyone is able to, "come along children we wouldn't want to disturb Mr. Blythe and Ms. Turner now would we?"

The rest of the stay at the estate is quiet and wrought with tension as they Marguerite and her brothers are more or less told to stay out of the way of their father and Ms. Turner. Instead they are confined to the rooms that are their bedrooms the parlor, and the "playroom" as Lady Blythe had dubbed it. Though the punishment of being trapped in the space wasn't so bad as they were on their way back to France within two days.

It wasn't until they were on the train that Marguerite dares to ask the question that she's been dying to ask ever since she saw her father.

"Mama," she says cautiously gauging her mother's reaction, "is Papa going to come back home?"

Her mother gives her a sad pathetic look and shakes her head, "I don't think so, my love." Her tone is soft and comforting despite the pathetic look about her.

Marguerite screws up hr face, thinking of reasons why her father won't come back. "Why? Does he hate us?"

Her mother doesn't respond, instead she pulls into her lap and begins to hold her. With her head against her mother's chest she can feel mother's body shaking, as she tries her hardest to quietly sob.

Upon her first return to France, Marguerite decides that she'll never fall in love so that she'll never be as sad as her mother is.

The second time Marguerite leaves France it's to go and live with her father. She's 13 and she's not happy with the arrangement at all.

Her mother dies of some illness that she can't pronounce the name of, it come on suddenly and takes her just as suddenly. And just as sudden as the death of her mother comes a letter from England. It's written in the impeccable handwriting of David Blythe and details that since he is the father of the four teenagers he is now their sole guardian and will bring them to England so that he can raise them there, in a "proper household". He also mentions that while they are meeting again under "most upsetting circumstances" he's pleased that he'll be able to regain a relationship with his children.

When Georges reads the letter he burns it immediately after, saying that he's an adult and that they don't need to go to England, he can take care of his siblings just fine. And Marguerite believes him because time and time again Georges has proved that he can do nearly anything he sets his mind to, so why should taking care of them be any different. After all, Georges is 19, Luc is 17, and soon enough she and Alain will be 14. They're all old enough to work and they don't need David Blythe and his old aristocratic wealth, they never did and they never will.

It takes about a week of convincing from their uncles and grandparents, but Marguerite, Luc, Alain, and Georges decide to go to England in the end. It's based mostly on the fact that their grandmother reminds them that their mother wouldn't want them to be "working class bastards wasting their life away." So, although begrudgingly, they pack up all of their personal belongings and make the journey to Oxford, England.

On the way there Marguerite reads all of the letters their father has written in the weeks following the death of their mother. They all range on subjects, one is about how he did truly love their mother even if the marriage ended badly and how he's very sorry for all that he's done. Another is about how he's married to that Vera Turner woman and that they have two daughters named Prudence and Phillipa and they're four and three now. He says they're lovely girls that they are sure to love. He also says that Oxford is a quaint town and they house isn't as big as the the old manor house that the Lord and Lady Blythe stay in, but it's big enough for all of them to live in relative comfort. The letters don't ease her, but they don't really upset her either, so she figures that's as good as sign as any to go to England.

Their father and his new family are there to see their arrival. He's not how Marguerite remembers him. He no longer wears slightly dirty slacks and shirts with the sleeves rolled up. His hair does hang about in the carefree manner that it would and his hands are caked in dirt like they would be when he came home from work. He's not as muscular or as youthfully vibrant as he had been all those years ago. Instead his hair is styled, not a single strand out of place, and a mustache that seems fitting and out of place all at the same time. He's wearing a stiff-looking suit that is probably worth more than what Georges made in a month, and there's just a small hint of a smile on his face.

Vera on the other hand looks displeased, and just from that look alone Marguerite can tell that Vera doesn't want them here, and she probably fought their father tooth and nail on this. But even with her look of distaste its obvious why their father left them all for Vera. She's ridiculously beautiful, she has the kind of face that could compete with Helen of Troy. On top of that Vera has a pedigree that could easily compete with her fathers. Vera had beautiful blond hair that lay in intricate curls and beautiful blue eyes that reminded Marguerite of the Mediterranean Sea. Everything about her is perfect, and Marguerite can see how he would have left her mother for Vera. Her mother was a woman with a pretty face, she had light mousy-brown hair that grew in thick curls and large brown eyes that showed her kind nature. She was pretty enough, but there was no way she could compete with the likes of Vera.

And in between their father and Vera stood two young girls with perfect blond curls adorning their pretty little kids. They were quite and obedient, whereas at that age Alain and she and been anything but, and from the stories that she had heard Luc and Georges had been even worse at that age. It was no wonder their father had never come back, his new life was so much better than what he would left behind that she could almost understand his reasoning.

When they reach their father Georges gives a cold hello and sticks his hand out for their father to shake. The corner of his mouth droops a but he none the less places his hand in Georges's and gives him a firm handshake and a much more pleasant hello. Luc and Alain follow Georges's lead, as they usually do. And when it's Marguerite's turn to greet him she hugs him, catching him a bit off guard, and he returns the sentiment.

England is supremely different from France, and Marguerite isn't sure if she likes it or not. In England she has more things than she had before, she even has her own room now, but that doesn't make up for what she lacks. Her grasp on the language is weak and Alain goes to the boys school while she goes to the girls so she has a difficult time in school. The other girls all her "the filthy frog" and mock her accent. Only a few treat her nicely, though no one is all that friendly with her.

At home Vera tries to make some connection with them, she's not the miserable character that Marguerite thought she was, but she makes little progress with them. They all still blame her for the break-up of their parents marriage was, though Marguerite knows that the blame isn't deserved as Vera was more or less completely innocent in the break-up, and for that reason alone they won't ever really like her. Of course Georges is the worst to her, always making snide comments and undermining her authority when she can. Though she can understand why Georges is angry. He's angry for their mother, they all are, and the fact that Vera is only 5 years older than him isn't helping. Marguerite can tell how it grates on Georges's nerves every time Vera tries to take on a matronly role, especially when it concerns Marguerite or Alain, though she wishes he wouldn't always react in such an angry way.

Most days Georges and Luc are off studying at the university, Marguerite isn't positive on how they got in there seeing as they had never been the best of students, but she has a feeling her father and grandfather had something to do with it as when she first saw the university her father told her "Every single Blythe man has gone there Maggie, every single man in our family has gone there since the 18th century. Your brothers are going to go there too."

When her father says this she wants to point out that Georges, Luc, and Alain aren't Blythe men anymore, not since his marriage to her mother got annulled. They're all Beauchene's now and forever, but she sees the glint of happiness in his eyes so she bites down on her lip until she can taste just a bit of blood.

Her father can tell she's miserable and one day, after Georges has gone back to France to help their grandparents with the shop and Luc is still at Oxford studying to be a doctor of some kind, he pulls Marguerite and Alain aside and tells them that he can see that they're unhappy and that they want to go back to France, and if they stay just one more year and still find that they're unhappy he'll let them go and never make them come back again.

Only they don't get to go back to France, and from that point on Marguerite doubts they ever will. France and Britain declare war on Germany in 1939, and Vera assures Alain and Marguerite that everyone will be fine and the war will be over in less than a year. They receive a letter from Georges stating that he will be joining the French Army, and not long after Luc announces that he will be joining the RAF.

When Paris falls to Germany, Vera assures her that the war will be over soon. But Marguerite looks at her father while Vera talks and sees the grim look on his face Vera's musings won't come true. After all he fought in the Great War, he'd have the best idea out of anyone and he looks less than hopeful.

Marguerite's 16th birthday is exactly 19 days after the fall of Paris. It is also La Fête Nationale, and that day she sees a propaganda poster on her way back from the town. It shows a beautiful looking nurse leaning over an injured man looking down at him with concern. The poster reads "Save his life... And find your own. BE A NURSE."

Looking at the poster all she can think about are Georges and Luc who are God knows where. She also thinks of Alain who swore up and down that he would sign up to join the RAF, and had left early that morning to go to London to go and sign up. She frets over Georges and Luc enough as is, and with Alain going to war too, she'll be nothing but a wreck. A lonely wreck at that, she only has a few friends in Oxford and she spends all of her time with Alain for the most part. Once he leaves she'll be alone, at least if she joined the war effort she'd be able to help somewhat.

When she tells her father that she's signed up to become a nurse he's livid.

"You will not become a nurse!" He booms at her and she flinches at the volume of his voice. Alain stands behind her and puts a consoling arm around her shoulders. Vera stands in the background fiddling with her knitting needles nervously.

"I've already signed up," Marguerite says in a quiet voice, "It's already done."

"I don't care if you've already signed up," his face is a ridiculously red and his hands grip the chair in front of him tightly, "I will not have my daughter being a nurse in the middle of some war zone!"

"It's her choice, Father." Alain says in her defense.

"No it's not, she's only 16! She is still a child and I will not have her going off into war!" He snaps back at Alain. Marguerite's never known her father to be anywhere near this angry, and it honestly does scare her a bit. But she knows she can't shirk back on this commitment, she knows that this is the most important thing that she could possibly do.

"Alain is 16 and you let him join the RAF." she argues back, speaking louder than she had meant.

"Yes!" he father snaps back, "I've let all three of my sons go of to fight in the stupid bloody war! Isn't that sacrifice enough? Why should I let my eldest daughter go of somewhere where she won't even be able to defend herself, but can still be killed? You're just a child Marguerite, you don't know what war does to people! I already regret letting Georges, Luc, and now Alain go! I am not going to lose all four of my children!"

His face is a ruddy color and he's gripping the chair so tightly that Marguerite thinks he might break it in another minute or so. But she doesn't care, she wants this more than anything, and she's never gotten anything she's wanted in life. Everything's always been taken away from her, and she won't let this be taken away too.

"You lost your children the day you decided you'd rather fuck her," her hand is shaking as she points over at Vera who looks like a dear caught in the headlights "than be a proper husband and father! You lost your children the day you decided to run home to bonny ol' England. You left us as some stupid French bastards that you wouldn't even claim! Your broke our mother's heart, and you're the reason why she died! All she did was love you and you repay her by running off with some stupid girl! It was your fault she got sick and died! You ruined everything for us, and nothing is going to change that! You lost your claim as our father!"

Her voice is cracking and she's sobbing out of anger, never in her life has she yelled that loudly. But looking at her father he can see that his grip on the chair has loosened completely. Instead of being a terrible red color, his face has now blanched and he looks almost deathly pale. She turns to look at Vera who's sitting in the settee wiping stray tears from her eyes trying to remain calm. She can still feel Alain's hand on her shoulder and she knows that if she turns to look at him she'll see a look of utter embarrassment and disappointment on his face. So she doesn't look at him. Instead she shrugs his hand off of her shoulder and brushes past him.

She runs up to her room and digs her old suitcase out from the back of her closet. It's dusty from being locked in closet for ages, and when she throws it on her bed a plume of dust appears forcing her to choke on both her sobs and the dust. She grabs her most basic dresses and folds them as carefully as she can in her current state before placing them in her suitcase. Anything that she can deem important at this rate she places in the suitcase. Shoes, dresses, skirts, blouses, jewelry, pictures they all find their way into the suitcase.

"What are you doing?" Alain asks standing idly in her doorway.

She lets her eyes meet his for a second, and can see the disappointment in them and it kills her.

"Packing obviously," she says in a cold voice, "what else does it look like I'm doing?"

"Don't you think you're being a bit dramatic Rite?"

She pauses, patting down a shirt into her suitcase. "Have you ever known me to be dramatic?"

"No," he pauses moving off of the door frame and into the room, closing the door behind him, "but I've never known you to be cruel and rip someone apart with your words. He's just trying to look out for you Marguerite, you didn't have to be so evil about it. You sounded like Georges down there."

She blushes out of embarrassment and she hopes her brother can't see it. "He wasn't being fair and you know it." It's a childish reply but it's the only thing she can think of to defend herself.

Alain sighs and sits down on her bed, the springs groaning below him.

"Where are you going to go, Rite?"

"To Luc's flat," she replies returning to her packing and avoiding eye contact.

"That's all the way in London, how on Earth are you going to get there?" He sounds like he's laughing, but Marguerite knows that he's concerned and nervous. He always laughs when he's nervous.

"By train obviously."

"With what money Rite? Outside of David you don't exactly have an income of any sort. And I doubt the bookstore really paid enough for you to get by in a place like London."

She moves over to the top drawer on her dresser and pulls out a medium sized tin box. Fiddling with top of the box for a second she opens the box and shows Alain the wads of money sitting in it.

They're both silent for a minute and she can't decide whether she should stay still or continue to pack.

"How long have you been planning on leaving?" He asks in a quiet voice.

She shrugs, "Two years and seven months."

"And is that all of the money you've been saving since then?" He asks indicating the two tin boxes she now carries.

"Most of it, yeah."

"All the money that the Lord and Lady gave you, all the money that Georges and Luc have sent, all the money that you earned at the bookstore?"

She nods taking out a small wad of the money before packing the rest away in the suitcase. Alain exhales loudly and lays down on her bed rubbing his face with his hands.

"You could come with me you know," she says sitting down next to him, "we'll both have to go to London soon enough anyways to report for duty."

Alain sighs looking at her. "So you're serious about this? You're sure you're not making a rash decision?"

"You're either coming with me or you're not," is her only reply.

Alain sighs again and he looks a bit conflicted.

"Alright," he groans, "Give me a bit of time to pack."

All she does is hug him in reply, and he kisses the top of her head.

England some how becomes a bit more bearable for Marguerite once they leave Oxford

Years pass and one day when Alain is on leave he lets it slip that there is going to be a huge offensive sent out into France.

"Why are you telling me this?" Marguerite says in a low voice, even though they are in the confines of the flat.

"Because," Alain says "They're going to need nurses that can speak French, and not too many fit that role."

Marguerite raises her eyebrow at this, "I thought you didn't want me to go into the front lines."

"I don't" he replies simply, "But I know that the army will want you to. I'm just letting you know that you probably should get ready to leave London pretty soon."

Sure enough, Marguerite gets a letter telling her that she "_shall be deployed into France on a date to be announced and in the meantime will be asked to be prepared for departure._"

She writes a letter to her father, detailing that she at some point shall be deployed into the front lines, but he need not worry for she would be safe at all times. Even though she knows it's a lie she writes it anyways to assure both him and herself.

The next time she comes back to France, the world has gone to hell.

Nothing really prepares Marguerite for what she sees in Normandy. Not the diagrams she had been shown, not the cadavers, not the bombing victims, nothing prepares her for what is in Normandy. At last she can see why her father didn't want her to become a nurse, because any innocence left in her dies with the first man that dies in her arms. His name is Brandon Gruffudd and he's from Cardiff and he begs for her to save him, and she promises that she will, but she breaks her promise as she watches him grow stiff while she tries desperately to pinch an artery shut.

After Brandon Gruffudd more and more men begin to die. She can't remember names, she only remembers scared faces before they die that seem to torture her in her sleep. But it doesn't matter that she has nightmare because so does everyone else, and no one cares that some 20 year old girl cries in her sleep.

Every so often she's moved from place to place to place, until finally she finds her way to Bastogne where she finds herself stuck in frozen hell both physically and mentally and she doubts he'll ever get out of it. Even with the news of her relocation she falls deeper into the frozen abyss as the war takes away more and more life.

Though on her very last day in Bastogne she feels strangely hopeful, though she hardly know what hope is anymore. That's when she sees the medic Eugene Roe sitting outside on a piece of rubble smoking a cigarette.

"Hello Miss Marguerite," he greets in that strange accent of his, "they deployin' you somewhere else? I heard the other nurses talking about it."

He sounds a bit bitter, but Marguerite understands why. She gets to live, she can get a bit of reprieve from all of the death and explosions, while Eugene can't he has to stay or die, those are the only choices he'll have the entire war.

"Yeah," she replies, "They're sending me to Paris."

She fiddles with her sleeve of her coat while she talks with him, looking at the stray threads on it. Out of everyone in Bastogne Eugene Roe is the closest thing she has to a confidant, and her has no idea. He doesn't know everything, in fact he knows the bare minimum about her but in the middle of war the barest of facts is equivalent to a biography. Of course Anna and Renee had known more, but everything they new about her had died with them, and that just left her and Eugene.

She's not even sure why she chose Eugene other than a sense of normalcy that she craves. There are other medics in Bastogne, all of whom could have related with her just the same. But something within Eugene draws her like a moth to a flame and she can't explain it.

Eugene lets out a low whistle, and gives the closest thing to smiling that anyone can manage. "Well I imagine Paris will be a mighty nice change."

And suddenly she realizes that Eugene isn't sitting anymore; he's standing right in front of her.

"I'm happy to be leaving," she replies, "though I probably shouldn't be so pleased when there's so much to be done here."

He takes a small step towards her, "Marguerite," he says in a soft voice, "you shouldn't feel bad about it. No one blames you for being happy to leave a place like this."

Eugene's only a few inches away from her now. Suddenly she can't remember what exactly they had been talking about, she feels her thoughts getting fuzzy, and the only thing she can focus on is how close their bodies are and how wrong this is. She should be saving lives right now, and he should be too. There are much more important things that she should be doing, she shouldn't even consider kissing some soldier, because at the end of the day that's what he is. He isn't someone special, he isn't the man that is going to whisk her away, off to someplace where war is just a distant thought. He's here in this frozen hell with her right now, he's one of the many keeping her here, it's her job to help him save lives. It's not her job to cozy up to a medic she hardly knows, to want to kiss him and do God knows what else, she shouldn't be considering any of it.

But she does, and she move closer to Eugene, their bodies only centimeters apart. She can feel the heat from his body radiating off of him just a little bit. She looks up at him, and without a second thought she kisses him. His body is rigid for a moment, but only for a moment. Within seconds he reciprocates her kiss. His lips are chapped, much like hers. The kiss is a little bit rougher than she imagined it would be, but then again it's not a kiss of love so it makes more sense to her why it is. This is a kiss of need, of a desire of some sort. A kiss to try and regain some normalcy. Somewhere else, where being attacked and killed isn't the main worry, this is what people their age do. They do little promiscuous things like kiss handsome strangers, and they enjoy it.

She rests her hands on his chest, partly because she wants to push him away, and partly because she wants to get closer to him. She can't decide which she wants more, so she leaves her hands there in an awkward position. She knows better and she knows nothing good will come of this, but for the first time in a long time she's not that concerned about everything that surrounds her. She isn't worried about all of her duties, all of her thoughts, there's nothing there to disturb her.

Eugene brings his hand to her cheek. Its freezing against her warm skin, and in she wishes he'd move it away from her. But a truck honks, and they break away from each other as quickly as possible. His face is flush, and Marguerite can't imagine herself looking much different.

She takes a few away from him and gives him a small awkward smile, "good bye Eugene, it was nice meeting you. Perhaps I'll write you?"

"Yeah," Eugene says. He's still firmly planted to the ground, his feet haven't moved an inch, and his face is still flush with an unreadable expression,

"Yeah," he clears his throat a little "yeah, that'd be nice. I'd like that very much."

Marguerite offers nothing but a smile, because she's not sure what else to do. Then she simply turns her back on him and walks away.


End file.
